


Keep him safe ashore

by cameliae



Series: Rivers are lost in the sea [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bickering, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pirates, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Siren Jaskier | Dandelion, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, and finally they fuck, and ugh thats a sweet fuckery thats disgusting, but just slightly now they are too in love for this, finally this time its true i swear, for now at least, i will add more characters with the next chapter!!!, like lost into each others eyes kind of fuck, no beta sorry sorry sorry, of course they still bicker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24525442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cameliae/pseuds/cameliae
Summary: “You are not doing that just because of what Mergera said, right?” he narrows his eyes, and he may be completely engulfed in arousal – that's what Geralt's body and presence always do to him, after all – but his mind is working just fine, thank you very much. “Right, love?”The bastard just pursues his beautiful lips, and glances at his lap.“Oh oh oh oh my fucking Gods, Geralt, what the actual fuck–”“I'm not doing this just for that, idiot!” he throws his hands to the air, exasperated, “It's just–” he closes his eyes – unfortunately, they're gorgeous even when they shine out of anger – and squeezes them once, before starting to explain himself again, “I'm done waiting because I'm too stubborn and too stupid to take what's mine, and killing you in the process. I'm done doing what people expect me to do, expect me to be, and breaking your heart every fucking time. If following what pleases me gives you life and not ends it, so be it. I'm following it.”They are lost at sea. But it's okay, they are fine, they're together. Sad that Roach isn't with them, though. Sad that Geralt has to kill more pirates, now. And maybe Jaskier's family, too. Love endures! (finally!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Rivers are lost in the sea [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724101
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	Keep him safe ashore

**Author's Note:**

> Uhm. I've taken a lot of liberties here, about Sirens and all. Call it artistic license? (please don't judge)

The night is not so cold, in that place they end up to be. Not for him, at least, but seeing Jaskier, naked and trembling like a wet kitten abandoned under the rain, maybe he should feed the fire to make it bigger, to better warm Jaskier up. Geralt would like to be of help, but they are nowhere as long as he knows, and there seems to be noone in the immediate proximity, nor in the woods behind them. He knows that probably he should go and investigate, if there's a town or a village or _someone_ nearby who could tell them where they are or, at least, give Jaskier a shirt that it's not torn like his chemise – he does feel guilty, but well, how could he have known at the time that Jaskier would have lost all his clothes in the sea?

Geralt dares to glance at the bruise he left on his shoulder, and yet, he doesn't feel _so_ bad, knowing that that mark on his skin is from him. Everyone, now, when they look at him, would know that he is Geralt's.

“You alright, Jaskier?” he asks, grunting a bit when he sees his teeth clattering.

Jaskier shrugs, seated on one of the log Geralt found before he made the fire. His hands are clenching his arms, trying to give himself a bit of warmth, even though he is so close to the flames. “You want the truth, love? I had better days. But then again, I am fine, you are fine, we are together, so yes, I am quite alright.” he grins and wets his chapped red lips, hugging himself a bit more. “If not for the lack of clothing, and for the sand in places I would gladly like to have something else that actual sand, and also for the terrible ache I feel in my legs, I would really liked here. It's peaceful, isn't it?”

“It is.” Geralt confirms, but he doesn't care about the place. As long as Jaskier is there, everything becomes bearable. Is he being a bit too cheesy and sentimental? He doesn't care. Jaskier likes this kind of things, so he won't hold back what he feels. Not anymore – or, well, at least he will try not to. He thinks that it is still too early to be too open with his feelings, but in his mind, for now, it's fine.

As long as Jaskier stays.

“Well, there is a breathtaking view: the starry sky above us, the sound of the ocean's waves crashing against the shore, the warm light of the crackling fire on your handsome face. It's almost romantic.” he sighs, contently, then grimaces, “If only I hadn't sand up my arse, ugh, really not cool.”

Geralt snorts, and Jaskier narrows his eyes. “You're shivering, too.” he says, stopping whatever remarks Jaskier had about his snort.

“What can I say, you make my entire being act like a stupid jelly.”

“Your brain too, from what I can see.”

“Can't argue with that.” Jaskier smiles at him, his bright blue eyes almost transparent in the golden firelight, wide and adoringly. “Say, my dear Witcher, be a kind soul and come here. I need your big and hot muscles to warm me up, because the fire is doing a very great job on my front, but my back is still wet and _freezing_ , godsdamnit.”

“I thought you would never asked.” Geralt says, getting up. He is naked too – even though his clothes are drying near the fire, beside his two swords, his armor and the giant tooth of the Kraken and not somewhere in the depth of the ocean – and Jaskier's eyes starts to roam wherever they can land on his body.

When Geralt sits right behind him and envelopes his body in his arms, hugging him tight and sinking his face in the crook of his neck – right where his shoulder is bruised –, Jaskier sighs, contently, making himself confortable against his chest. “Mhhh, you know, Geralt, you don't have to wait for me to ask, if you want to hug me.”

“Hm.” he just answers, breathing his scent – there is salt and sand on his skin.

“Hm, indeed. I am open to every kind of affection you want to try, and I gladly give you my consent to use me as a subject for your experiments about love.”

“I'm not completely clueless. I had Yennefer.” he murmurs, voice muffled by his skin.

Jaskier snorts, “And that was _love_ for you? I believe you have a lot to learn, then.”

Geralt doesn't answer, because he is right. He has a lot to learn. After all, all went shit with Yennefer just because he knew nothing about what he was feeling, if real or not they were it doesn't metter. At the moment, he is glad that Jaskier hasn't the same temper of Yennefer – most of the time – or... or he would have lost him long ago. Whilst Yennefer never stayed, Jaskier was – and _still are_ – always near him.

So, he kisses his neck, the lightest pecks on his bruised collarbone, and Jaskier hums and inhales, he settles better against him but there is nothing sexual in this. Geralt just wants to enjoy his flavoured skin, and in Jaskier's scent there is nothing if not contentment and happiness and weariness. And it is fine. Probably Jaskier is just too tired and too in pain to even think about sex, at the moment.

“Uh, what a day. I am exhausted. At least Roach is fine, back in town.” Jaskier sighs, and he sinks a hand in Geralt's mussed and tangled hair. “And your swords are, too. You were lucky to have had them still on your back, when the ship wrecked.” Then his hand stilled, as his whole body. “Oh.” he murmurs, “Oh, _uh_. We may have a problem.”

Geralt frowns, but he does not arise from Jaskier's shoulder. “What?”

“The... uh, the tiara. It is, uh, I think it is at the bottom of the ocean now. It was still inside my pouch bag, when shit happened, and, you know. Lost forever along with my pants.” he turns to look at him, and he doesn't let Geralt's arms lose their grip on him, but he forces Geralt to finally let go of his shoulder. “I am so, so sorry, love. I... shit, I lost the tiara.”

Geralt huffs through his nose, “Nevermind, Jaskier. It is fine.”

“It is really _not_ fine, Geralt! All that gold, lost forever! And– _shit_.” he gasps, dramatically, and what it seems to be emotional grief clouds his darkened eyes, “My songbook! It also was inside my bag! Oh, all my unfinished songs, and, _oh_ , the new ballad I was composing, and, _oh no no no_ , the lullaby was writing for you! Everything is lost _forevermore_!”

Geralt doesn't say anything. He just– well, he is feeling the calm before the storm, in Jaskier's strained voice and words. Geralt just hoped that Jaskier would have realized it later, maybe after a rest – not a good rest, but it would still have been better than now.

When Jaskier falls silent too, Geralt knows it is the dreadful moment where Jaskier would really understand what he actually lost, in the depths of the ocean.

“Geralt.” he whispers, and his eyes are full of unshed tears. Geralt's heart tightens in his chest. “My _lute_.” he says, and his voice breaks at the end.

Then Geralt finds himself a very sad and a very whining bard crying on his shoulder. He cannot see his face, being hidden in the crook of his neck, but he can clearly feel hot, copious tears running down his back, and Geralt sighs, not liking that his lark is being everything but happy, and caresses his hair, trying to calm him.

Jaskier is tired, and he is in pain. He already cried a bit, when Geralt said that he loves him, but those were tears of happiness, not sadness. They were the good kind of tears. Geralt doesn't really know what to do now: he would gladly go and take the lute back, if it was a possible thing to do. Maybe some of the Sirens took it as a souvenir? That would be great, that would mean that the lute is in a Siren nest. They could take it back, like this, as they did with the tiara – and the tiara, too, if they are lucky enough, are in some Siren's hands.

It's just that– everything was completely destroyed, after the Kraken attacked. The possibility that the lute survived the shot of its tentacle not once, but _twice_ , it's nearly none. He clearly remember how the captain's cabin was smashed – he survived just because, well, he is a Witcher. Anything inside it... _hm_. He was a bit distracted at the time, fighting with the damned octopus, but he didn't see the Sirens take anything that was inside that cabin. Just some tresure the pirates had in the cargo hold.

After all, neither the pirates' bodies were... intact, after the attack. And thank to whatever deity who looks up on Jaskier that the bard was not hit.

“I have to go.” Suddenly, Jaskier stops crying and tries to get up. Failing pathetically, considering that his legs are still numb and not responding at his commands. “Fucking hell, _move._ ” he orders, at his own legs.

Somehow, Geralt manages to keep him against his chest, “And where to?”

“I am going, you can't stop me. I can't lose her, I just can't, Geralt. So I will now go, and you cannot stop me. I am _unstoppable_. I will save her.”

“No, you can't.”

Jaskier sniffs, and cleans the snot with the back of his hand. Does not fight against the grip Geralt has on him, though, and he lets himself get handle until he is again seated with his back on Geralt's chest and Geralt's face resting on the skin of his neck.

“You sure are crying a lot.”

Jaskier sniffs again, “Not everyone is an emotional constipated muscle man like you, darling. I am feeling so much right now, and I _felt_ so much in the last _hours_ that you can't really blame me if I will cry until my eyes pop out of their sockets.”

“Hm,” he grunts, tightening his arms a bit more around Jaskier. He seems to appreciate it, “I'm sorry about your loss.” he tells him, then, unsure of what to say, really. He wants to make him feel better, but he doesn't know how, right now.

“It is not a loss. Not, and I swear this to Melitele, when the moment my legs _finally_ stop feeling as if a rock smashed them into a slobbish mess comes, I will jump into the sea and search for my beloved lute even if I have to control every fucking places underwater. And you won't stop me.”

“You know I will. I won't let you go.”

Jaskier sniffs one more time, and whine out loud, “That is one of _my_ line!”

“You said I had to learn. I am learning.”

“Fuck you, love.” he murmurs, and even though Geralt can't really see him, he knows that he has his pout on. At least he stopped crying. “She was unique. She had those magnificent curves, her weight always conforted me, when she was tucked safely on my shoulder. And, oh, how I will miss the noises she made whenever I touched her! They were priceless. She helped me gaining more money than I deserved, and this I will never forget.”

Geralt snorts, “Rest in peace, I guess.”

“You cannot understand, Geralt. She was irreplaceable, there was something magical in her – I thank the Elves for that. She helped you too, giving you notoriety throughout this twenty long years. You will resent her loss!”

“I will miss you playing her, but nothing else.” Geralt says, breathing in his so salty scent. It somehow calms his nerves.

After his words, Jaskier starts crying again. Geralt just lets him, because evidently Jaskier needs to relieve the stress he accumulated during the last three hours. And it is surely not the first time Geralt sees Jaskier cries, he cries whenever he has the occasion, after all. Sometimes he fakes some tears, and along with his impossible puppy eyes, he gets what he wants from _everyone._ Useful, in tiring times. But he hates it. He hates when Jaskier cries.

After ten minutes or so, Jaskier's crying becomes just an eventual sniff here and there, until his hard breathing becomes even, “I think I'm gonna fall asleep, now.” he slurs, and tucks his head on Geralt's shoulder behind him.

He is _incredible_ , Geralt thinks. He is just like this, so candid and trusting, always wearing his heart in his sleeves. Geralt will of course never be like him, and he is not even sure that it is what Jaskier really meant, when he said that he needs to learn to love himself. To be honest, he still _doesn't_ get what Jaskier meant, but nevermind. Jaskier will tell him, if something goes wrong. “Go on.” he murmurs, a thumb caressing lightly the tender skin of his hip.

“You should, too.”

“Hm, sure.” But of course, he'll stay awake.

Jaskier falls asleep like this, with his frozen nose against his throat and a hand that finds itself through Geralt's strands again.

He stays like this for hours. Jaskier, as always, can't stay still or silent, not even while sleeping: his fingers twitch, his breathing is deep and his chest rises and falls rythmically. He feels his nose wrinkles, and his lids flutter as his eyes follow the dream he is having. His legs are the only part of him that is immobile, tangled together on the thin sand near the fire.

When the sun will arise, Geralt needs to go and search for some herbs that may help Jaskier endure the leg pain he has – since he lost every potion he had with him during the shipwrecks. Jaskier swam for a long time, and for a lot of miles, and he may have strong legs used to run behind Roach, but it is not the same when he has strained the tail he has never used before this week. They hurt even when he doesn't do much, after all. Now, Geralt thinks that Jaskier is belittling what he is really feeling – and, looking at his tear–stained face, he is quite sure that his crying isn't just for the loss of his lute.

He kisses his temple, and Jaskier moves a bit, sticking to him even more.

Suddenly, Geralt hears a noise. It is far from them, somewhere in the woods – and for a second, he thinks that perhaps it's an animal. The noise is light, a soft crunching of fallen leaves and dry twigs, but they are definitely steps. On two legs, if he is not wrong.

Grudgingly, he lets go of Jaskier. He winces when Jaskier immediately wakes up, “What is it, dear heart?”

“Something is coming.” he tells him, getting up and reaching for his steel sword.

Jaskier moans, touching his legs. He stays on the sand, and he runs a hand over his tired and red–rimmed eyes, “A deer? I am quite famished, you know. Even a tiny rabbit should go.” he whispers.

“It's on two legs.”

Jaskier gasps, “A _bear_? They don't have a good taste.”

“Light steps. Something small.” he says, and he gets on guard, placing himself between Jaskier and whatever is coming.

“A beetle?”

Geralt huffs through his nose, “Jaskier, hush.”

“Well, you didn't tell me _how_ small it is. Uhm,” Jaskier snorts, and he chuckles softly, “Geralt, you know I appreciate, I mean, _really_ appreciate the view, but I think it would be more confortable for you if you decide to wear at least your trousers, while you fight for our salvation. But, uh, it's your choice, it is completely fine for me if you don't want to!”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but he doesn't move, “Strange that you want to cover me.”

“What should I say, I need to preserve what I hold dear, and your bits are _very_ dear to me. Ha! As if you don't know that already!” To be honest, he knows that quite well. When his trousers hit his back, Geralt turns just enough to catch Jaskier's arm still raised. “So, c'mon. Cover your wonderful bottom, I don't like the idea of some beetle looking at you in all your naked glory. But of course, who am I to force you–”

Geralt grunts and puts his trousers on, just because like this _finally_ Jaskier would shut up. When a twig snap closer than before, Geralt growls and Jaskier gasps, outraged – “ _don't growl at me, you brute._ ” _–_ and right after a minute, a warm light flies through the trees of the wood in front of them, followed immediately by a small figure.

A girl, guesses Geralt. A _woman_ , he then thinks, when the figures comes closer and he can see her armonious curves covered in night clothes, the long wavy black hair, the flawless dark skin. She has a lantern in one hand, raised in front of her to light her way. She has a strange, tense expression.

Jaskier groans, and not because of the pain. “Now I am glad I've asked you to put your trousers on. I would have preferred the beetle, to be honest.”

“You are still naked, though.” he tells him, without taking his eyes off the woman.

“Ugh, fine!” he hears Jaskier move behind him, and he clearly hears the rough material of his shirt caressing Jaskier's skin. “I'm telling you, Geralt, our jealousy is getting out of control. Well, how could you blame me, after twenty years I am a bit tired of other people trying to take you away from me, and at this point I guess it is the same for you too–”

Jaskier shuts up, when the beautiful woman reaches them. She looks at Geralt with something that resembles rage in the gentle features of her face. When her black eyes lands on Jaskier – still seated on the sand, still with his red–rimmed eyes, still with his unresponsive legs – her expression turns pained.

She has a low, careful voice, when she speaks: “You came here to die?” she asks, eyes boring on Jaskier.

Geralt snarls, and raises his sword. The woman does not pay any attention to him.

“Ehm... excuse me? Is that a rethorical question? Because, whatever, the answer is no, no thank you, I am very much content with my current life at the moment. I would gladly continue to live, so I beg of you to not murder me?” Jaskier says, confused. He cannot control a yawn, and blinks. “Or my Witcher, for that matter.” he adds, as if that is a very important thing to point up.

At that words, the woman's features soften, her eyes become full of a strange fondness that confuse Geralt more than anything. But seeing that, he lowers his sword – still, he doesn't move from Jaskier's way.

After witnessing another Jaskier's wide yawns, the woman looks at Geralt. “My house is nearby. I am the only one that lives in this island, and I offer both of you shelter.”

Geralt frowns, trying to understand if it would be a good idea or she would reveal as a dangerous threat. She seems completely harmless, though.

“The Siren needs a rest.” she says, then, cocking her head to the side. Her long, curly hair bounces around her face. “And I have a lentive potion for his legs.”

Jaskier inhales, “Uh, I could gladly use a bed right now... Wait.” he tries to get up, and Geralt sees him utterly failing with a groan. “How do you know? I mean, I guess you can plainly tell that I'm in pain, but how can you tell that I am a...” he trails off.

Geralt sheathes his sword, puts both of them on his naked back – considering that his shirt is now Jaskier's – and then he gets near him, opening his arms, “C'mon.”

Jaskier blinks, “Geralt?”

“You can't walk.” he says, shrugging.

“I _do_ know that, but. Woah.” Jaskier smiles, and a soft pink lightens his cheeks, “Fine, if you cannot endure the distance between us so much, Geralt, I magnanimously accept your offering to bring me to safety bridal style.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, “I have a big shoulder. I wanted to bring you there on it.”

Jaskier pouts, “It's unconfortable. Bridal style I said!”

Geralt relents, and he can't help but feeling his lips stretch in an amused smile, when he sees Jaskier's enthusiasm. His eyes brighten and goosebumps appear when he feels one of Geralt's arm under his armpits and the other under his knees. He doesn't even seem in pain, right now. He just look proudly at the woman, as if he's showing what he has and that he surely thinks that it is the best, while Geralt raises him from the sand. He settles better with his arms tight around Geralt's neck, tilting his chin high.

“Come. We will talk tomorrow, after a good night rest.” the woman says, eyes gentle while watching both of them. Geralt can't really understand what she is thinking, but her stare is too fond to be hiding something dangerous. He still can't feel any threat coming from her, so he chooses to trust her. They are in need, after all, expecially Jaskier. He _does_ need to rest.

They start to walk calmly, in a unhurried pace. Geralt just has his bard and his swords with him, the rest of the – very few indeed – things left there in front of the dying fire on the beach, he eventually will come back tomorrow to bring them wherever they are going now. He follows the woman, who shows them the way and illuminates the road through the woods with her lantern, in a complete and not at all awkward silence – so much that, after only five minutes or so, Geralt feels Jaskier's heads lolls against his shoulder, the grip he has on his neck lightens and his breathing becomes heavy with sleep.

Geralt glances briefly at him, without stumbling. He seems relaxed, Geralt is not gripping too tight on him; his face is free of wrinkles and he's of an healthy pink in the cheeks. He still has goosebumps, but that might be caused by the cool air of the sea around.

When they have crossed the woods, Geralt finally see a little house, more like a cottage, in the middle of a clearing, with nothing around it if not for more trees and flowers and a well. There are some chopped wood right beside the entrance. Behind the cottage, Geralt can see that there is the beach again, covered briefly by the tree's fronds – the woman has said that they were on an island, after all.

The woman opens the door, slowly. It creaks lightly nonetheless, “Please, do come in. Don't let him wake.” she murmurs, looking at Jaskier with love and affection.

“Hm,” he hums, and carefully enters inside the cottage. He is immediately surrounded by a weak but definitely there magic, “You are a sorceress?” he asks, then, stilling himself and tightening the grip he has on Jaskier. He doesn't even stir.

“I prefer to be known as a sea witch. But yes, I am, and you don't have to be afraid, I won't cause you any harm. Both of you.” she whispers, and her expression is so open and affectionate that, even if it confuses him immensely, he cannot not trust her. So he does. Just because Jaskier needs a fucking bed, that is. “Upstairs there are empty rooms. Choose one. In the washroom there is already a bath for you, you can surely heat the water yourself. Rest as long as you wish.” she smiles, “Let him sleep for now, and tomorrow I will give you the potion for his legs.”

While walking up the stairs, Geralt looks at the beautiful witch one last time and says: “Thank you.”

But she shakes her head, “There is no need to thank me. Good night, Witcher.”

“Did I hear correctly?”

Geralt smiles, “It depends. Weren't you sleeping, by the way?”

The moment Geralt reached upstairs, Jaskier stirred in his arms. The house is not as small as he thought, and inside is warm and cozy – that might have wake Jaskier up, the feel of finally be safe with a roof up his head. What Geralt can't get out of his head is the strange, familiar scent that permeates the walls, and into every room he crosses. It's a scent so similar to Jaskier's – it's salty but blended with thousand, different perfumes and smells. It's not quite Jaskier's, of course. Jaskier's scent is unique and he adores only his, that tip of chamomile in the saltiness of his skin and sweat. It _is_ peculiar, though. It reminds him of the Sirens' smell.

Jaskier snorts, right in his ear, “I _was_ , indeed. So, did I hear correctly? A _bath_?”

“Yes, Jaskier. There is a bath. You can have one tomorrow, after you rest.”

“I rested enough! You are quite confortable. And you surely don't pretend that I sleep in a bed with sand up my arse, do you? I need that bath _now._ I _might_ fall asleep again, later, lulled in the warmth of the water, but it is hardly relevant. You can even join me, to be sure I won't drown.”

“Wouldn't it be funny? A Siren drowned in a tiny wooden tub.” he sighs, walking directly to where the washroom should be, at the end of the corridor, he guesses.

“Very funny, yeah. But it won't happen, because you will be there with me?” Jaskier says, candidly, even if his words sound like a question.

“I don't have sand up my arse.”

“Liar. I clearly saw it. I had quite the view of your arse, before.” he nuzzles his hair, sinking his nose right under his earlobe, and he leaves there the softest of the kisses, “Will you join me, then?” he whispers.

Geralt clears his throat, “Maybe.”

“You are making yourself desired, I see. I desire you already, you don't need to restrain.” he gives him another few light kisses on his collarbone, just the way Geralt did not so much time before, and it is... it _is_ distracting. But his steps don't waver, because he can feel from Jaskier's scent that he doesn't want to do anything sexual, probably still too numb and tired.

Jaskier, with a whiff, opens the door of the washroom, without much loosing the grip on Geralt's neck, and sighs relieved when he sees that indeed there is a bath and the candles all around are already burning. Not that it would have been a problem, but still.

“Can you stand for a moment? I need to heat the water up.”

“Yeah, let me just...” he muffled, and huffs exasperated, “Let me lean on you.” says at last, and his legs tremble a lot when Geralt lets him stand. His arms don't leave him, fortunately, or he would have stumbled on the floor.

With a quick _igni_ , Geralt heats up the water and helps Jaskier go inside the tub, after taking off his shirt. He sighs a bit pained, when the hot warmth touches his aching limbs. He closes his eyes, and tilts his head to the side, “You should really join me, love. It's perfect.” he says, with a smile.

Geralt hums, “In a moment.” he tells him, and he uses a second or two just to look at him, soaking content in the water, the orange lights from the few candles around the tub brightening his features, making him almost like a gold statue. Almost like that one that resembled his grandmother, the one that was on the ship. It probably is destroyed as everything is after the wreaking – pity that they couldn't discover anything useful about it.

He grabs the sea sponge and some oils – sadly, there is no chamomile scented one – that he finds on the floor and he wiggles it in front of Jaskier's face. “You want me to do it?” he asks, when he opens his wide eyes.

He chuckles, “I am not as stupid as declining this offer would make me be. So yes, I am all yours.” he says, putting his arms on the edges of the tub.

 _I am all yours._ Geralt kind of likes the sound of those words.

He passes the sponge on every centimeter of his skin, sweeping away every grain of sand stuck in his hairy arms and chest, being particularly careful with the still lightly bruised shoulder and with his legs. He helps him putting them on the edges of the tub too, so they would not hurt much when Geralt tries to reach them.

“Do I need to go up your arse, too?” he murmurs, grinning a bit, while washing his thighs.

Jaskier reopens his blue eyes and there is a heated spark into them, “Not now, dear heart of gold. Very soon though, I hope. But, uh,” he grimaces, “you need to go near there nonetheless, because, well, there _is_ sand, ugh, really.”

Geralt leans to him, when his fingers touch, light as a feather, the rim of Jaskier's hole. But he doesn't go further, he just stays there, caressing the wrinkled skin, drinking every sweet moan that escapes from that lustful half–opened mouth. “Your fingers feel fucking _good_ , Geralt. I can't wait to feel them _inside_.” he sighs, and flutters his lids. He tilts his chin, his eyes clearly begging for a kiss. “I can't fucking wait.”

“Have to. You won't wait long, though.”

Jaskier snorts, and trembles a bit when Geralt's fingers leave his arse and start caressing his belly and stomach, avoiding his soft cock. “I sure hope I won't!”

Geralt smiles and kisses him, open mouthed and filthy. He remembers faintly the kisses Jaskier gave him underwater, the kisses that brought him back to life, that made him _breathe._ How the fire he felt in his lungs dissipated when Jaskier breathed into him, and how beautiful he looked with his hair floating all around his face, eyes sparkling, mouth red and swollen, tail blue and entwined with his legs. Now there is not the same urgency, the same adrenaline of that moment – but Jaskier's grip on his shoulder and hair is the same, his soft mouth too, his same breath too.

It's intoxicating.

When they part, Jaskier murmurs on his lips, “Can you join me and wash my hair now, please? Or are you waiting for me to beg?”

“Hm, I wonder.” he mumbles. He feels Jaskier's stare at him without much shame while he gets off his trousers, and finally joins him in the lukewarm water, settling right behind him, chest against back. He immediately puts his hands into his hair, pouring some scented lotion in it and scraping every knot that sand and salt created with his smooth strands.

He feels Jaskier relax under his caresses, for once being _him_ on the receiving end, and Geralt think that probably he is falling asleep again, if not for his gentle humming and for his fingers that are writing words and letters he doesn't understand on his knees.

“I was almost done with your lullaby.” he whispers, voice thin and full of sleepiness, “Now I cannot even perform it to you, not without a lute.”

“I'm happy with just your voice. Sing it only to me.”

He chuckles, his back dancing slow against him, “You are fortunate I have a very proficient mind, Geralt, and I still remember the parts done. I really need to find another journal and write it down, or else I will never finish it.”

“I'll ask if the witch has a spare journal somewhere, tomorrow.”

“Ohw, my hero.” he hums more, then he stops abruptly, “Wait, the witch? The woman is a witch?” At Geralt's grunt of affirmation, he groans, “I don't get along very well with sorceress and such.”

“She seems to adore you, though.”

“Yeah, somehow. Might be because I'm cute. Or she might be just more clever than Yennefer. Or maybe because, in some magical way probably, she knows I am a Siren and she is some kind of crazy researcher that likes to make experiments on them? It might be this, actually. She lives in fucking _nowhere_.”

Geralt smiles and puts gently some water on his head. “She might.”

“Yeah, she might, but she didn't thought about me having a wonderful and dangerous Witcher by my side that would fight against the mountains and the seas to protect _me_. Ha! The _audacity_! The _presumption_!”

“She won't lay a finger on you.”

“Of course she won't. And it is even silly to point up that she won't lay a finger on you neither, 'cause I am here and, I swear to Melitele, no one will touch you ever again as long as you are mine. _I will fight against the waves / to let you see me / before you marry the sea._ ”

He changed the lyrics – he remembers the song slightly differently. Those words warms his heart nonetheless, the same way as the first time. Jaskier always wrote songs about him, since their first meeting, but that song – that _lullaby_ – is the first song _for him_. Geralt wishes that Jaskier would sing it just to him, and no one else.

Jaskier turns around and rest his cheek on his chest, fingers scratching the white curls on his chest and closing his eyes with a contented smile stretching his red lips. “Now heat the water again and let me sleep, you adorable man.”

“Here?” asks Geralt, frowning.

“Here.” confirms Jaskier, making himself more confortable. And like this, he hums until his melodious voice trails off and starts to doze as if he has found his place into the world. “ _The high tide will bring me back to you._ ”

❁

Jaskier wakes in an unknown bed, and Geralt is not beside him. He feels quite rested, and his limbs don't ache too much he notices, while he languidly stretches, fresh and perfumed linens tangled all around his naked body and soft feathered pillow under his head that smell like the oils from yesterday's bath and Geralt's own particular smell.

He doesn't open his eyes immediately. He stays there and enjoys the rays of the sun peeping out from a window near him, that warm his face and let him see gold behind his closed eyelids. He can clearly hear someone inside the room, and for the sound of it, that particular someone is putting his clothes on.

“Oh, to be abandoned by a lover without even a kiss that marks the end of our night of passion.” he exclaims, without opening his eyes, the back of his hand dramatically presses to his forehead.

Geralt grunts, “Pity that I don't remember much of that passion. Just the drool, all over my shoulder.”

“Oh, what a bastard you are sometimes. You are a lucky man, though, because I love you the same.” and, oh, it is so  _liberating_ saying it out loud, finally, without that silly fear that he might be rejected once again. Because he won't, he won't be ever again, and now he has the  _confirmation_ .

Expecially now that, after his words, what he gets back it's not Geralt's silence, or Geralt's shunning him out, or Geralt's spite of  _fear_ . Now, what he gets is a gentle kiss on his slighly parted lips, and a big, warm hand nuzzling the hair of his nape. He shamelessly giggles, when he feels Geralt's stubble tickling his cheek, so he opens his eyes wide, and stare at the magnificent view he finds in front of his face, of a Geralt so bright and happy, so full of adoration in his eyes of gold.  _Fucking hell_ , he wants to wake up like this  _every fucking day_ from now on, he cannot even  _think_ about any other way now that he has the fortune to have  _this_ . 

“I have a request, if you'd be so kind to take it into consideration.” he murmurs, voice low.

“Hm.” is the only response he gets, while Geralt's nose touches his.

“Can you  _please_ fuck me, now?” he whines, and yes, he uses his pout too. He knows that  _the pout_ always wins. But Geralt just groans, loudly, exasperated, he hangs his head just enough to leave the lightest of the kisses on his collarbone, then he stands and moves away. “Oh, c'mon, Geralt! I clearly remember that yesterday you said you wouldn't let me wait long! And I refuse to even  _think_ that you may still have those idiotic thoughts about  _me_ leaving  _you_ , because it is quite a–”

“No.” Geralt interrupts him, “Never again.”

“Good, great, fantastic!” he smiles, so wide that he feels his cheeks hurt, “What are we waiting for, then?” he asks, putting himself in a sitting position, sheets sliding off his chest.

He now can see their surrounding, and the bed he is on has a side attached to the wall opposite of the door – he is ready to believe that it's Geralt's doing, so he can have quite the view if anyone had entered into the room during the night. The window is right near him, a few centimeter over the bed, so the rays are hitting the right side of his person and, yes, he is trying to be sensual thanks to the incredible help of the sun, with that setting Geralt's  _cannot_ hold himself still! He should resemble, well,  _an angel_ or something!

But Geralt seems inflexible, crossing his arms against his chest. “Your legs hurt.”

“A lie!” he exclaims, hitting the air with an hand. Then, he sighs, “Not a lie, they do hurt. But,” he raises a knee, tentatively. It hurts, but not terribly. It hurts like his arms do after a whole night playing his lute –  _oh, his poor, poor lute –_ so, it is a bearable ache, more or less. “see? I can move them!”

“Listen, Jaskier.” Geralt inhales, then exhales while he sits on his knees on the floor in front of him, looking at him with all the love and all the _patience_ he can muster. “The witch has something for your pain, can you _at least_ wait until we finish talking with her?”

Jaskier pouts, obviously, “I hope that will be a very brief conversation.”

“That's up to _you_ , and you know that.”

“Ugh, _fine_ , you insufferable man! You're killing me, _killing_ me! I will write a song about my sorrow and my heartache that will surely outlive me, and so even after my death – death of course caused by arousal, and it's gonna be all your fault – you have to keep on living with the tragedy of my demise haunting you for eternity!”

Geralt grins, gives him a light pat on a cheek, then stands. “Clothes on, now. Didn't you want that massage I owe you?”

“Ugh, _yes_!” he whines, still pouting. “I still don't have any clothes, though.”

He sees Geralt's frown appear on his forehead, then he walks away from the bed and starts to rummage into a closet nearby. That oaf, so _adorable_. He can't help but lick his lips, when his eyes lays on Geralt's bottom – unfortunately, covered by his black trousers. But they're tight, thank the Gods. And what a sight the curve of his hard arse is!

He moans languidly, streching his arms – and not daring to do the same with his aching legs – then he leans on the windowsill, looking to the horizon, over the evergreens around the house. For what he can see, they are in an island – if he remembers correctly, the witch did say that, the night before – and the sea shines, hit by the rays of the sun, all around the land. The view is so beautiful that he might write a poem about the golden sea foam caressing the shores and the sparkling of the waves crushing against the rocks and the cliff– _wait._

He narrows his eyes, leaning more on the windowsill, as if trying to look better. He doesn't have the tiara anymore, so he can't put it on his head and watch the vision to make sure that cliff is the same cliff, but– but rarely his mind forgets this kind of thing, things that are _important_ , so he is quite sure that the cliff is the one of the vision. No, he is _completely_ sure of it.

He gasps, and for the shock he almost falls out the window, if Geralt's hand didn't grab his arm to stabilize him. “What the fuck are you _doing_ , Jaskier?”

“Can you see it?” he points over the treetops, somehow with a bit of a fear that he is the only one that can actually see it, like the vision. “The cliff? Do you see it?”

Geralt thins his lips, “Is it the one?” he just asks, softening the grip on his arm, but without leaving his side.

“Yes!” he exclaims, and he doesn't know if he is exited about this or just... creeped out.

“Hm.” Geralt nods, then throws some clothing on the bed, and says: “Get ready. We have a lot to ask the witch.”

“We definitely have.” he says, and examines the clothes Geralt found for him, “Uhm...” he picks up what should be a tunic or something, “Uhm.” he finds into the mass of clothing a corset and... a dress? “Uhm, I didn't know you had this kind of preferences, Geralt. Not that I complain, but it was pretty unexpected.”

Jaskier would bet his talentuous fingers that Geralt, if only he doesn't have that insufferable self control, would have blushed like a fair timid lady. That would have been _hilarious_ , damn his witchery control. “That's what I found!” he snarls, on the defensive. “I didn't _look_!”

“Yeah sure, keep repeting yourself that, maybe you will believe that after a while. But rest assured, your secret is safe with me. We may even use this,” he shows him the pale pink corset, “later, if you wish so.” and then, he winks, flirtatious.

Geralt's nostrils flare, and Jaskier isn't completely sure his reaction is from the exasperation or... well, arousal. “Jaskier, just– just get dressed and _shut up_.”

Jaskier passes the next ten minutes giggling, almost rolling off the bed.

In the end, Jaskier puts the most sober clothes of them all, the plain, brownish tunic. He has his legs bared, but it doesn't really matter – that means that later Geralt will find no obstacle when he'll rub the ache away with his clever fingers. He can walk quite well, but of course he takes advantage of the pale pain of his legs and leans on Geralt's side anyway, and Geralt gladly bears all his weight, without complain. He might still be a bit cross with him, for he has laughed for too long at his expense, but he didn't even for a second give him the cold shoulder – thank fuck, that's progress.

They reach downstairs and immediately find the witch chopping something, with a firm emerald silk dress covering her curvy body and her wavy black hair gathered in a soft braid. She is seated elegantly on a chair by the table at the centre of the room. There are cubes of cheese and ham in a wooden plate right beside her elbow.

Jaskier's stomach immediately grumbles, “Good morning, dear hostess. May I eat that cheese, if I am allowed to?”

She watches him as he slips on a chair, Geralt by his side. Her black eyes are, somehow, very warm. “Everything here is also yours. Feel free to eat as you wish. There is more, if you later desire for more.” she then looks at Geralt, without sharpening her stare, “It is the same for you, too.”

Geralt just nods, grateful.

The woman reaches for a vial up on a shelf behind her back, then gives it to Geralt. “The potion I told you yesterday. It needs to be rubbed on the sore point, and in half an hour it should take effect.”

Geralt nods again, taking the vial, while Jaskier swallows the piece of cheese he is eating, “Oh, thank you, _thank you_ so so much, my dear Lady. What is your name again?” Jaskier asks, and at the same time Geralt reaches for his legs with _so much_ tenderness, putting them on his lap, and spilling the lukeworm potion on them. “Uhm, Geralt?”

“Eat, Jaskier.”

“Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against what you are doing, but– uhm, I kinda hoped it would have been a private thing?” he says, his words sounding like a question. Geralt's fingers starts to push against the knots on his left thigh, the exact point where his wings just sprout out so vehemently during the transformation, and his voice breaks a little because it feels _so good_. That was the fucking reason why he wanted this to be a private moment, after all! Just thinking about those fingers caressing his arsehole during yesterday's bath makes his blood boil, and he very well hoped they could repeat the gesture!

“For fuck's sake, Jaskier, just _eat_.”

“Well, you should, too, you big careless oaf!”

The witch clears her throat, hiding a smug smile behind her fingers, “There is no need to thank me. Jaskier is your name, am I right? You can call me Mergera, just... Mergera.”

Jaskier smiles. Despite what he thought the night before, he trusts her – and he trusts the way Geralt seems to be around her, all relaxed and at ease. “It's a pleasure, really. I'm Jaskier, and this brooding man is the mighty Geralt of Rivia. You've been very kind to give us a roof over our heads, even if I cannot understand _why_ you did that.”

She cocks her head, “Why shouldn't I be? I don't remember you, but... Didn't I help you before?”

“Uhm,” Jaskier blinks, and he feels Geralt's eyes on him, “No?”

Mergera frowns, her thick eyebrows drawn together wrinkling her forehead, then glances briefly at his legs, “Who gives you your legs, then, if not me?”

“That is a very peculiar question, my lady. As every other man and woman out there, I was born with them.”

“I don't understand.” she pursues her lips, and her black irises look at them completely baffled, in her dark, gentle face there is only sheer confusion. “Aren't you a Siren?”

He grabs a slice of ham, “It seems like I am, but I had no idea until almost a week ago. I find out in an accident, actually, when _someone_ so stupidly threw me into the ocean.”

Geralt grunts, and keeps massaging his calf without losing a beat.

“So you know nothing.” she murmurs.

He shakes his head, “Nothing at all. I am searching for answers, that is the main reason why we were lost at sea, to be honest. I am to believe that you know anything about my situation?”

“I will give you all the answers you want.” Mergera sighs, and she settles better on the chair. Her big hands rest elegantly on the table. “Let me talk first, my child. You have to know, I am here to help the Sirens of this waters, that is why I am known as a sea witch. They call me like this, actually. Whenever they have a problem, they usually come here and I do what I can to help them, even though I am not a very powerful sorceress. At first, they were hunted, attracted by fishermen and sailors, then brutally killed by the same to sold their scales or to eat their flesh. They thought that Siren flesh brings immortality. It's false, obviously.”

Jaskier shudders, widening his eyes, “That's _horrible_.”

She nods, “It is. So I helped them, and I still do nowadays. I enchanted monsters that serve them, that help them get revenge on people who harmed and still harm them. Oh, now that I think about it, I took the liberty to go to the beach and collect your armor, Witcher.” she smiles, baring her straight and white teeth, “I saw the tooth of the Kraken. It was one of the monsters I myself enchanted. Strange it attacked you, Jaskier.”

“To be honest, it did not attacked _me._ ”

“It stopped, when you came to me.” says Geralt, without stopping to do his job. “And nothing attacked us on the way here.”

Jaskier watches as Geralt's fingers push against the sole of his right foot, strong enough to relax his aching muscle but not _too_ strong to hurt, “True. And there _were_ Sirens all around, after the shipwrecks...”

“They are often nearby.” Mergera smiles, gently. “Despite my help, though, the Sirens keep dying, because they still fell in love with humans – the same humans that, later, would sold their finns and scales to make jewelry out of that.” she sighs, biting his plump bottom lip, “So I put a spell on them, I give them legs to walk on land, so the humans would not find any reason to kill them and the Sirens would be happy. Would be loved.” she lowers her eyes, “My spell is not reversible, but they can transform back for a while, when they are completely drenched in sea water, hence they would miss too much the life they gave up. And for a while, it worked, they were in love. Until they started to come here again, broken and in pain.”

“What for?” asks Jaskier, with a voice so thin that he almost fears that it might break if he talks too loud.

“To die. They came here to die. They... they still do, less then before, but still. Although nowadays Sirens are so full of rage that the ones that come here aren't in search for legs, but just weapons, there are still some poor unfortunate souls that begs for happiness. And, duly, after a while they come back here, to die in a quiet place, a place they can call home even without their tails.” she hums, without raising her eyes, “They are like rivers. They live, they cross the land, and then, at the end of the road, they become one with the sea.”

Oh fucking _Gods_ , this is a story so sad and heartbreakingly romantic, probably worth _billions_ of golden, shiny coins if only he will be able to imprint all the suffer and the sorrow into a ballad or, _even better_ , a poem with his signature at the foot of the page. His heart aches a little, knowning that all the Sirens he cursed during the last week, they are just getting _revenge_ , and in his modest opinion, they have all the fucking _right_. Jaskier shivers a bit just thinking of some rude sailor trying to steal his magnificent blue scales.

He feels Geralt's fingers freeze on him. “How do they die?” he says, and Jaskier, when he looks at him, sees that his face is darkened and he has his brows furrowed while he stares at Mergera.

“Heartbreak. Sirens are more or less immortal, as long as their heart is intact. When it breaks, they just... start to waste. And most of them come here to die, they waste into this waters until they turn into sea foam.”

Part of his mind is thinking that he gladly would like to have a journal so he could write all this good material without risking to forget any crucial part, but his eyes and most of his attention are still on Geralt, and Geralt, somehow, doesn't seem pleased to hear that, his expression's dark and broken as if he has received an unexpected stab in the guts. Hence, his fingers tighten around his foot almost painfully – for a second, he is afraid they might snap his bones – but he immediately lets go of him, the moment he hears his voice, “Geralt?”

He ignores him. While Jaskier gapes, Geralt brings his legs down his lap and slams an elbow on the tables, “Tell me more, witch.”

“ _Excuse me_ –”

But Mergera ignores him, too. She smiles, her eyes gently looking at Geralt, “You have nothing to worry about, Geralt of Rivia. When I found you on the shore, at first I thought... but as I see how happy you both are, it's clearly not the case.”

“What the _hell_ are you thinking with that big, hard head of yours?” Jaskier kicks his calf – he doesn't react well when people ignore him, expecially Geralt, after all – and the Witcher doesn't even _flich_. Fucking _cock_. “Uh, Geralt? _Please_ talk, Geralt.” he says, voice full of sarcasm.

Geralt grunts, and stops another kick from Jaskier with his hand still a bit oily, “Nothing.”

“Stop overthinking, my heart of gold, you are not good at that!”

“I said I'm thinking about _nothing_!”

Jaskier huffs, “Liar!” and kicks him again, while Mergera just looks at them, with a knowing and fond smile on her plump lips and a loose strand of his hair between her fingers.

“Fine, fuck.” Geralt grits his teeth, and narrows his eyes as he glares at him. “I _did_ it. I did break your heart, didn't I?”

Jaskier blinks, “Yes, you did. Plenty of times, too.” but then he softens his eyes, while dramatically rests a hand on his forehead. “But that wasn't _enough_ , as it seems, considering that I am still here breathing and I am still very much alive. You won't get rid of me that easily, my dear.”

“There was a risk. I don't like _risks,_ Jaskier. You could have turned into _sea foam._ ”

Jaskier grins, “A peculiar way to die, am I right?” At Geralt's growl, he groans, rolling his eyes, “Fucking hell, Geralt, I didn't!”

“But you could have, everytime you _could have–_ ”

Jaskier leans to him and kisses him, to shut him up. Woah, that's the first time he does that – or anything, really – to shut Geralt up, and he must admit, this is a very wonderful way to do that. Probably that is why Geralt _always_ kisses him to close his blabbing mouth. “But I didn't.” he repeats, when he ends the kiss, “Just make sure to do not break my heart again, and the risks will decrease.” he gives another, quick kiss on those frowning, beautiful lips, “Now _stop_ overthink, my love, it doesn't suit you at all.” Then, he turns to look at Mergera, smiling. She reciprocates, “Now, what were we saying again? I have a _lot_ of things to ask–”

But, well, he made the mistake of not paying attention to Geralt, who had no intention of dropping the argument. He gets suddenly manhandled until he rests against the broad shoulder of that _impossible_ Witcher, as he says: “Sorry, I have something to do, now.” then he heads upstairs, without waiting any response. _Rude_.

“Excuse _you_ , Geralt, first of all I prefer the _bridal style_ , not this kinda _barbaric style_ , but– oh my Gods, Geralt, you oaf, put me down _immediately_ or I swear to Melitele I'm gonna pinch your arse until you beg for _mercy_!”

“We are going to fuck, now, Jaskier.”

Jaskier stutters, and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat with a pitiful whimper, when he realizes that the thing Geralt has to do is _him_.

Geralt gently lays him on the bed sheets, with utmost care that Jaskier feels himself so taken care of,  _so loved_ that he almost cries. But no, it's not the time to cry – it's time to Geralt to fuck his soul out. 

Geralt kisses him so ravenously and  _desperately_ that he moans loudly, welcoming him between his bared legs and hugging his broad shoulders until his hands sinks into the white strands of his hair. Their teeth clang, their tongue dance together and Jaskier cannot restrain himself and licks his fangs, careless, sinking in his mouth  _hard._

But something is wrong.

“Geralt.” he calls his name, and Gods how he hates to stop him while his hands are on his hips, ready to take that aesthetically ugly tunic off his body, but he  _has to_ . “Geralt, wait a minute. Just a minute, it's not in my plans to delay this moment  _once again_ .” he manages to choke out, excitement clouding half his brain. 

Geralt, the magnificent man he is, stops abruptly. “What is it, now?”

“You want this, right?” he huffs, breathing heavely.

Geralt rolls his eyes, “Of fucking course I want this, Jaskier.”

“You are not doing that just because of what Mergera said, right?” he narrows his eyes, and he may be completely engulfed in arousal – that's what Geralt's body and  _presence_ always do to him, after all – but his mind is working just fine, thank you very much. “Right, love?”

The bastard just pursues his beautiful lips, and glances at his lap.

“Oh oh oh  _oh_ my  _fucking_ Gods, Geralt, what the actual  _fuck_ –”

“I'm not doing this just for that, idiot!” he throws his hands to the air, exasperated, “It's just–” he closes his eyes – unfortunately, they're gorgeous even when they shine out of anger – and squeezes them once, before starting to explain himself again, “I'm done waiting because I'm too stubborn and too stupid to take what's  _mine_ , and killing you in the process. I'm done doing what people expect me to do, expect me  _to be_ , and breaking your heart every  _fucking_ time. If following what  _pleases_ me gives you life and not ends it, so be it. I'm following it.”

Jaskier waits for Geralt to open his eyes, before speaking, because he wants to look at them, he wants to sink into those golden pools that he loves so much, so fucking much. “What pleases you, you say?” he murmurs, his voice soft, as was so many months ago, years ago, up on that hateful mountain.

Geralt's hands raise until they rest on his face, thumbs caressing his cheeks, “Yes.”

“And is it me? What pleases you?” he asks again, just to be sure.

“Didn't we already settle that before?” says Geralt, raising an eyebrow.

And Jaskier is just too weak, too weak and too in love, so he kisses him, softly, and closes his legs around Geralt's waist, pushing his heels in his back, as if to imprison him forever onto his body. “Yes, but I wanted you to tell me again. I  _am_ a greedy man, love.” he sighs as he bites lightly his upper lips, and from Geralt's throat escapes the sexiest growl ever existed. “A very greedy man, indeed. I want  _all_ of you, Geralt. Everything you are willing to give and even more, I will gladly take, and cherish it for the rest of my life.” then he grins, intertwining his fingers with Geralt's, still on his face, “Or existence, so it seems. You'll have me around for a very long time.”

Geralt smiles, and his bared teeth shine in the morning sun, and he is so beautiful seeing him so relaxed and bright and  _happy_ – Jaskier can read it in his face, in his soft expression, in his eyes that lack of any spite and disgust towards himself and the fact that he  _is_ loved and he  _is_ loving. Jaskier can finally see the acceptance in his gestures, the complete absence of restrinctions on his feelings that he puts solely on himself. 

Jaskier is  _so proud_ of him, right now, he would sing it to the whole world and beyond. “That was lesson number one, Geralt.” he rolls him over, until he is seated on his lap, knees beside his hips and palms right near his head. “Love freely! Be uncare of others! Just be  _yourself_ and love as you desire!” he exclaims, smiling wide, and Geralt just lays there, so carefree and so at ease that Jaskier's heart might combust out of adoration. “You are a very promising student, I must say.”

Geralt cocks his head to his side, and traces his wrist with his nose, “Thanks.”

He shivers, “And I can't wait to teach you how to cherish your entire being, my lovely heart. It is now my existence goal to let you see how magnificent, how gorgeous, how gentle and good and  _arousing_ you are.”

“Let's start with the arousing part.” Geralt says, and as quick as his witchery powers make him be, he takes off his ugly tunic with a single, nimble motion, throwing it carelessly on the floor. “Hm, fuck,  _Jaskier._ ” he growls again, low and so fucking sexy, and Jaskier feels Geralt's cock swelling under him, still constricted inside his tight black trousers. He moans, as he takes his hands on Geralt's chest to stead himself again, and meanwhile Geralt – and he's a tease, oh Gods, he is – caresses his whole torso with the palm of his massive hand, playing deliciosly with the dark hair on his chest, the other one tight on his hip. “You're beautiful.”

“Finally you acknowledge it.” he muses, laughing breathlessly.

Geralt's eyes flares, “Always known.”

With trembling hands, Jaskier takes his shirt off, and he stays for a second to look at his mussed hair, unruly strands loose around the hard features of his face. He leans until all his weight is on his elbows, and like this he has his nose and his lips and his cheeks and his chin and all all his face within reach of his kisses. Under his lips, he feels Geralt's stretch in a smile.

“Get off your fucking trousers, love.” he pants, while his hands slither down his body until they tug the hem of his trousers, and Geralt relents, grinning slightly. “Can't wait to ride that big, fat cock of yours.”

“Quiet, Jaskier.” he groans.

Jaskier chuckles, and Geralt's trousers join his shirt and the tunic on the floor, “Aww, my words fluster you? Are you embarrassed now?” and a shiver goes down his spine when he feels – fucking  _finally –_ Geralt's erection in direct contact with his skin. “And you know I won't ever get quiet, expecially in this magical moments.”

Geralt kisses him, raising from the sheets and then rolls him over, setting better between his thighs. Still with their mouths connected, Geralt blindly searches for something on the floor and ends the kiss just when he finds it.

He gets on his knees, and his eyes of gold lasciviously caress all his naked body, and Jaskier without shame watches as their cocks rub together and twitch together. Something in his belly just  _explodes_ when Geralt brings the vial Mergera gave him for his legs near his face and uncorks it with his teeth. “I sure hope that you're not using the potion for my legs, Geralt.”

He spits the cork, and it falls with a deaf sound on the floor.  _Shit_ , that was so,  _so_ turning on, “Are they feeling well?”

“They are feeling  _fucking_ fantastic, there around your waist.”

“Then there is no need to use the rest of the potion on them.”

“Shit,  _yes_ .” he grabs his own thighs and raises them until they rests on Geralt's shoulders, and licks his lips while he watches Geralt's eyes stare at his bared arse. He closes his eyes, and his eyes rolls almost behind the skull, moaning softly when Geralt leans on him again and hovers his oily fingers near his hole. “Shit, fuck,  _yes_ , Geralt. Put them  _in_ .”

“Greedy.” he murmurs in his ear, then he bends his head to kiss, light as a feather, the bruise on his shoulder, “So greedy.” he repeats, and finally his finger pushes through the rim of his hole, gently, so gently that Jaskier's legs can help but tremble out of expectation.

Jaskier does not understand anything, after that – he just stays there, enjoying his finger, feeling another one joining the one already inside, and then another one yet, until there are four fingers inside him and all he can hear beyond the whistle in his ears are Geralt's grunts as his hard cock strokes against Jaskier's lower belly and his own loud pants. And he doesn't shut up, he  _can't_ shut up, and if only he has enough connection to reality he would  _sing_ out loud what he is feeling so anyone could hear him and  _envy_ him. 

Geralt crooks his fingers and Jaskier sees  _stars_ behind his eyelids, “There, oh mother of everything that is holy, Geralt  _right there_ .” he blabs, as he blinks to regain the bit of his conscious that is sliding away from him. 

“Here?” Geralt teases him, as his fingers keep on pressing on that bunch of nerves.

“Here, yes,  _yes_ .” he pants, “And now I need something  _bigger_ , Geralt.”

He shivers, when Geralt's fingers abandon him. He feels all his limbs on fire, all his nerves turned on, while Geralt's arms encircle his thighs and gets them a little bit more up in air, and the head of his erection so gently forces the relaxed rim. He trembles more, when he feels the tip inside of him – and Gods, it feels so good, he waited so much time, he desired this for so long, he  _dreamt_ about this for so many sleepless night while he rested next to a snoring Geralt that, now that he  _finally_ has it, he still can't quite believe it.

He lets out a high satisfied sigh, then grimaces a bit – because fucking hell, he's  _big_ and it streches him so good but he needs a moment here to get used to that mighty cock. But Geralt is a soft man, even now with his heavy breath and his trembling arms, he pushes in him so gently, listening to every discomfort Jaskier might feel, be as always the same, considerate, most kind man the world could generate.

“Fine?” he hears Geralt murmurs, his face hidden in the crook of his neck.

“Fine? Not fine, Geralt, this is way better than fine.” he laughs, then takes his face between his hands and kisses him so hard, and their teeth clang in a not so sexy way, but does it matter? Not at all. “I'm not gonna break, so don't you  _dare_ restrain yourself. Move, now, or I'm gonna  _combust_ .”

Geralt snorts a breathy laughs, then he starts to move. His pushing and pumping are smooth, and every fucking one reach that bunch of nerves he found before, and it is so good, he feels so full and streched. Jaskier doesn't have to wait to long before Geralt starts to mount him  _hard_ , and the fire in his belly is unbearable– He feels so close to the edge–

They are looking straight in the eyes, they are breathing the same air, Jaskier does not even know when his body ends and Geralt's starts – he just feels as if he is getting lost inside the warm gold of his eyes, inside the grand adoration he can read in them, soaking in all the love that Geralt is trying so hard to pour on and into him. And he is doing it so well.

He comes almost silently, without shouting, without dramatically trashing, without kissing him. He just stare into his eyes. And this is the best fucking orgasm he's ever had.

Geralt reaches his climax not so much later than his, without dropping their gaze, but caressing his sweaty hair out of his eyes, and resting his thumb on his swollen bottom lip, that immediately Jaskier kisses, half–closing his eyes at the sensation of Geralt's spend inside him.

They stays like this for long minutes, just enjoying each others presence, until Jaskier just grins, rolls him until Geralt's back is on the bed linens – being so careful to not let Geralt's cock slide away from inside him. “Now,” he says, voice thick of a newborn excitement, “I'm gonna ride you.”

 _Ha_! Jaskier just hopes that Geralt is ready, because they won't get up from that bed for at least the next ten hours!

They stay with Mergera for three days. The excuse is that Jaskier needed some more time to rest, because his legs are still aching and strained, but really, his legs were completely fine the second Geralt rubbed that potion on them. But he doesn't complain – he _does_ really need some time away from everything, and Geralt too, probably more than him. If only Roach isn't still back in town, they would have surely stayed a few days more.

They talk, and they fuck. Actually, they fuck more that they talk, but that is okay, they literally have all the time in the world in their hands. No imminent death – on both part –, no old age knocking on their lives, no angry patrons kicking them out of a shitty inn. No, they are _fine_. Mergera is the best of the hostess, she adores Geralt just because he adores Jaskier, and well, Jaskier adores them both, even for different reasons. He can linger in bed way before noon, and still he can find a well prepared lunch and dinner for him and for Geralt. He can ask for a bath without worrying about the lack of money, and he can let Geralt fuck his brain out everytime he wishes so, without caring about someone calling him a Witcher whore, or harrassing Geralt in general.

Life is great. Buy time still passes.

Not that he didn't want to talk with Mergera about the things that bothers him, or about the answers to his many questions about his inheritance, about his grandmother, about the golden statue of the pirate ship, about the tiara.

He just had... something else to do. _Someone_ to do, to be precise. And now he doesn't know how to get into the topic. And really, they did talk a little tiny bit with her about his inheritance, and the fact that he is probably one in a million – as far as she knows, no Sirens gave birth to children apart from him, so as long as he didn't spawn little Jaskiers across the Continent, he is unique.

He already knew he was special, thank you very much. He just hopes that that day, so many years ago in Posada, _someone_ actually heard his song about abortion.

The day before Mergera will open a portal for them to the nearest town, she finds him up on the cliff. Up there the sea breeze is fresh, and tiny droplets of sea water splash around him at every crushing wave. The sight is _stunning_ , expecially when in the background he can watch as Geralt is chopping shirtless some woods for Mergera, to thank her for her hospitality, sweaty and with his hair hanging loose on his shoulder. He can't still quite believe that he is _his_ , for Melitele's sake.

She sits near him, and smoothes the folds of her emerald dress, while she settles better on the ground. “Nice view, is it?” she asks, her black eyes on the horizon.

“Worth of a song, I must say. But, alas, I cannot perform, not without my lute.” he sighs, as he picks up a flower beside him, a tiny white daisy. “The sea stole her away from me. I would have written a song for you too, my dear lady, if only I had the possiblity. A song to thank the kindness of Mergera of the Mirage Island, the goodness of her heart too pure for cruel princes, a home for heartbroken Sirens.”

“You flatter me, but there is no need. Geralt's doing enough already, I won't have any problem this winter thanks to him.” she chuckles, hiding her smile behind her long fingers, “I am deeply sorry for your lute. I gather that it must not be easy for a bard to lose his most important companion.”

“My most important companion is Geralt.” His eyes find again his silhouette, still next to the cottage, still shirtless, still with that axe in one hand. Still handsome. “I will survive her loss.” he says, then, looking at Mergera again and finding her smile wide on her gentle face.

“I believe you had questions? Now that we won't get interrupted...”

“ _Yeaaah_ , sorry about that.” he tells her, sheepishly. He starts fidgeting with the stem of the daisy, then he just picks up another one and braids them together, “Well, not that it is a mystery about the things I want to know. After all, you were as confused as I was, maybe for different reason, when you found out I was already born with legs.” She nods, while he picks a yellow dandelion. “I have a grandmother, I am actually searching for her. A tiara brought me here, made me see this precise cliff. She is beautiful, with long pale hair and the same eyes as mine. Do you perhaps know her?”

“Probably. If you saw her here... A tiara, you say? That's probably one of my enchanted objects, I made them to help the Sirens and just Sirens can use them. Let me think... Her name? Apart from you, and I had every reason to not remember you considering that I never met you before, I remember every single Siren that asked for my help.”

Jaskier frowns, and looks at the messy flower crown he made absent–mindedly. It's ugly, the flowers have lost some of their petals, but still, he continues to braid more of them together, while thinking. His grandmother's name? What's her name? He never called her by her name, back in Lettenhove – but he has some memories of back then, back when he was a child. Memory of his grandfather searching for her desperately through the castle, while she ran away from him, laughing mischievously. What was the name he used, then? It is on the tip of his tongue– “ _Anemone_. My grandfather called her Anemone.”

“Oh, yes. She... yes, she was here. Anemone. I remember her. She was... peculiar.” she smiles, sadly. “She died thirty years ago.”

“Oh.” he whispers. Somehow, he already knew that, deep inside of him. He probably knew the moment Mergera first said that the Sirens came here to _die_. And she was infact in so much pain, in his visions... “ _Thirty_ years ago?”

Thirty years ago, more or less, was the time she disappeared. So, she came here to die?

Mergera nods, “Came here that she was already wasting, her heart was already broken for a long time. She didn't have more time to spend here pacefully, I couldn't do much. I am so sorry for that.”

“I really don't think that it is your fault, Lady Mergera. I just can't understand, really. The little I remember – and mind you, last time I saw her I was still a child, ten years old or so – she was a free spirit, she loved everyone and, well, I kind of think that she had more than a lover, apart for my grandfather. So, how? How could he broke her heart? She wasn't maddening in love with him, as far as I know. Not the same way I love Geralt, that's for sure.”

“People love differently, my child. And not only lovers can break your heart. I cannot tell you what broke her heart, and for this I am sorry. But you are right, she was a free spirit. I remember when she came here many, so many years ago, begging to give her legs to walk on land. She wasn't in love with anybody, unlike the others, she just wanted to go on adventure, to discover the secrets of a world so different from hers. She loved _her life_ , unlike the others. She was unique.” Mergera eyes shine, under the brighting sun, when she looks at him. “You resemble her a lot.”

He drops the messy flower crown to the ground and starts to fidget with the hem of his new shirt, that Mergera so kindly conjured for him. “You are not the only one that think this. Probably this is the main reason nor she, nor me never fit in our family. Not longer after she disappeared, it didn't take long for me to do the same, after all. But, well, I didn't die.”

Mergera reaches for his hands, stopping his fidgeting. She squeezes them in hers, “And I am glad for that. What I always wanted for the Sirens is this.”

“If it's not too presumptuous to ask, why are you doing this?” he tilts his head to the side, and the sun hits his face in a sweet caress.

“It is quite alright for you to ask, don't you worry. Actually, it is a boring story, and unoriginal, not worth of one of your ballad, I am sure of it.”

Jaskier feels himself smile, “Let me be the judge of this.”

She reciprocates, “I fell in love with a Siren, once. Nothing too romantic in this, believe me, for I hid my feelings for her since the beginning. She eventually fell for a fisherman, that then captured her to sold her to some nobles. Later, I discovered that they ate her, and the fisherman had her scales as a trophy in his house. She had beautiful, shining emerald scales.”

“Shit. Fuck, that's terrible, I sure hope you've _obliterated_ him out of the face of the world!”

She doesn't deny this, but neither she confirms. “I just take her scales, and throw them into the ocean. Since then, I have isolated myself and help them as much as is in my power.”

Silence falls between them. Mergera's hands still don't leave his, but all his attention is on Geralt – somehow, he kind of wants to go to him and stick to him, because all this talks about heartbreak and long lost lovers are great and all, but they make him nervous. He's done with chopping wood, it seems, and now he his drinking from a waterskin, while using his black shirt as a towel for his sweat. Great, now he is nervous _and_ turned on.

“I guess love is calling you, now. You may go, I won't be offended.” Mergera laughs, elegantly low, and gets up. She sweeps the dirt off her dress, as he take a step away from the edge of the cliff. “Shall we go?”

“I have one last thing to ask, even if this is more a curiosity than anything else.”

“Tell me. I will answer you.” she says, as they start to discend from the cliff.

“On the pirate ship Geralt and me were on, there was this statue of a Siren. It was magical, the pirates actually said that it kept away the monsters. It resembled a lot grandmother.”

She seems to think about that, but then she just shakes her head. “I surely enchanted it myself. I do it sometimes, and in exchange, fishermen and sailors – or in this cases, pirates – swear that no harm will be done to Sirens, but the spell breaks the moment they try to hurt them. But I cannot recall why it resembled Anemone.”

“You didn't shape the statue yourself?”

“I did not. Objects are brought to me and I enchant them, nothing more.”

Jaskier nods, “I see.” then he raises her hand, still gripping his, and brings it to his lips, without touching but to give her just a ghost of a kiss. “Thank you very much, my lady.”

But she stops him, when he turns away, “Wait. Something came in my mind, about your grandmother.” When he motions her to continue, she frowns, “There is a reason I don't know why her heart broke, because she couldn't tell me. She couldn't talk, for her tongue was cut off.”

Jaskier drops her hand, and something in his chest _hurts_. He touches his throat, then his lips with the tips of his fingers. How could someone be so _cruel._ He will never understand.

He doesn't say anything after that. He just brings the flower crown to Geralt and dares him to wear it. He doesn't, but he doesn't throw it away either.

That night, though, after he sucked Geralt's cock until – _finally –_ more than a groan escapes from Geralt's tight lips, and after he lets Geralt fuck him from behind until he cannot see anything anymore, he asks: “You heard Mergera and me talk, this evening, didn't you?”

The room is dark, the window is just half closed so a light breeze caresses their naked bodies. A candle is burning right next to them, on a bedside table, and it's the only light that shines on Geralt's glistening skin. Jaskier is resting with his head on Geralt's chest, and he is breathing along Geralt's breathing, lulled by his slow heartbeat. He caresses the white hair in the middle of his chest, curling them through his fingers. He doesn't care about their sweats, or about their spends drying on their bellies – and arse, in Jaskier's case. He is fine, like this. This feels like _heaven_.

“Hm.” Geralt just says, his fingertips touching the skin of his arms so lightly as if he's afraid to break him.

“Now I guess all my questions have their answers. Our quest is over.”

Geralt hums again, “If you want it over.”

“Oh?”

“I heard _everything_ the witch said to you, Jaskier.”

He sighs, “Uhm, right, of course you have. So?”

“So, Jaskier, if you want to know what the fuck happened to your grandmother, I will help you.”

Jaskier raises slightly his head to look better at him, putting his chin on his chest and pouting, “I am not so sure I want to know. It's... kinda disturbing, knowing that the same, light–hearted woman of my memories had died with her tongue cut off, considering that what I remember the most is... her _singing_. It is disconcerting, I must confess.” he murmurs. He closes his eyes, when Geralt's massive hand moves away the strands of his fringe that almost covers his eyes. “Also, I have taken advantage of your time for too long. And because of me, you lost so much money! I lost the tiara, so you will never get paid for the job!”

“It's okay, Jaskier. Not your fault.”

“You are very sweet, Geralt, but we both know that it is a lie.” he huffs, still leaning into Geralt's hand, which is patting down his hair, “They were a lot of money.”

“I don't mind. We still have the pay from the Kraken.”

“True.” he opens his eyes, then, and melts at the sight of Geralt's soft gaze on him, “Sad that I couldn't ask for more, that _charming_ Alderman was so gruffly. I can't even perform anymore.”

“About that,” Geralt gets up and rests his back against the headboard of the bed, taking Jaskier with him, “you don't really need a new bedroll, right?”

“Um, well, to be honest I _do_ need a new bedroll, you know that. The old one is beyond any salvation, torn and covered in things that I don't want to bother to find out. But, wait,” Jaskier broadens his smile, “isn't this a rather insidious subterfuge to have me in your bedroll every night? Now, Geralt, you don't need to be so cryptic about this, I very gladly accept your unsaid declaration of unending lovemaking surrounded by the flourishing flora of the Continent.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “Sometimes it's so difficult to talk to you.”

“You love me for this, don't bother deny it.”

“I won't deny. As I was saying, we can get by with just one bedroll, for now, so with the money the Alderman will give us we can buy a lute. Not as good as the one you had, but you, hm, you can perform again. Like this–”

Jaskier doesn't even let him finish talking. No, he can't restrain himself and he really doesn't want to, when he is feeling _so much_ for this man with a heart so big that his massive muscle chest isn't enough to contain it. Cheesy? He is cheesy by _nature_ , after all, so he doesn't care about anything while he scrumbles on top of him, chest against chest, puts his handsome face between his hands to fill it with loud kisses and annoying pecks until Geralt starts to _beg_ – “Jaskier, please, _just stop._ ” – and tries to throw him out of the bed.

He stays there, of course, because Geralt doesn't really want him out of the bed, but it's so nice seeing how he struggle to be annoyed beyond comprehension but, at the same time, trying to be a good boyfriend. Oh Gods, _his boyfriend._ Just the thought makes him giggle, because now they talked, and no more fears stop them, so it is so _real._

This feels like heaven.

And he doesn't want to put an end to this yet and return to the outside world.

But as everything, that vacation too comes to and end. Jaskier hoped to part with Mergera with a heartfelt farewell, a promise of reunion, but Geralt just grumbles his thankfulness, begs goodbye and disappears through the portal, with a bag full of supplies – a gift from Mergera, the goodness of her heart so great until the very end –, the tooth of the Kraken tied to his belt and Jaskier in tow.

But Jaskier, before following him, hugs the witch and thanks her profoundly, for everything. Expecially for giving then those three days to regain strenght, and not just a physical one.

She only smiles, kisses his forehead and tells him that he will always be welcomed there.

❁

The witch, luckily, portals them near the nameless portual town.

They walk in a relative silence until they reach Roach, Jaskier lost in thoughts he probably doesn't want to expone. This is okay, Geralt can imagine what he is thinking about – he just... hates the silence, that's all. He isn't used to it anymore, expecially not after those three days, where he only felt, saw, heard Jaskier all day, all night, every hour and every minute, and nothing, anything was between them. No Sirens, no pirates, no cuckolds, no angry ladies, no deadly monsters. All was well.

He looks at Jaskier's outline, illuminated by the sunrise lights and wrapped in those brownish clothes that don't represent him at all, while he cooes at Roach. She acts like she is extreamily happy to see them after more than three days apart, but she seems to have been taken care of quite well, but Jaskier takes nonetheless an apple from the bag Mergera gave them and stealthly lets her eat it, grinning, pretending to hide the gesture from him.

There is shouting, farther away from the port. Geralt's eyes leave Jaskier to watch what is happening, but only in this moment he notices their surrounding, and the waves of people shopping in the marketplace and overcrowing the pier are no longer there. The town seems desert. It is true that it's still early in the morning, but looking south, Geralt sees a group of men shouting where the ships are anchored, and he just knows in his guts that something is wrong.

“Go inside and wait for me. As soon as I come back from the Alderman, we go away.”

“What?” Jaskier embraces Roach's neck, while pouting at him. No matter how much he pouted in the past days, he still can't fuckin _win_ against it. “First of all, why can't I go with you? And second of all, we have a free room, Geralt. A _free_ room. I don't want to lose this occasion.”

“We aren't safe here.” Geralt knows by now that if he wants Jaskier to do the right thing for himself, he needs to include him too. “Do you remember that we are the only one that survived the wreck of a _stolen_ pirate ship?”

Jaskier just waves at him, not worried at all, “No one saw us. And the pirates _agreed_ to help us.”

Geralt closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, his patience wearing thin. “Every fucking one saw us, Jaskier. Just do as I say. _For once_.” _Don't look at the pout, don't look at the pout._

He hears Jaskier huff a breath, muffling an irritated _fine_ and mumbling and a even more riled _but don't you dare turn me down when we camp or else_. He grudgingly stomps off and enters the inn, almost fuming – but not before giving Roach one last peck on her muzzle. She neighs, delighted, and when he disappears, her black and judging eyes stare at him.

Geralt grunts, and saddle her, so later she will be already prepared for the road. He pats her side and she nudges him the same way, still munching the apple Jaskier gave her. Then he leaves the stable, and asks the lone passerby where he could find the Alderman.

On his way to his house, Geralt grunts again. He doesn't like to saddens Jaskier, because he knows that the little shit was looking forward to enjoy another day doing just nothing if not eating at someone else expense and lingering in bed until the very next day, but this doesn't feel right. When they sailed with the three useless pirates, there were too many people around them, even if the ship was farther away from the others, and they surely saw them getting up the ship. They surely, if the rest of the crew asked, told the pirates who stole their ship – that Butcher, the white haired Witcher, and that little Witcher whore of a bard. Geralt's hands twitch angrily just at the thought of Jaskier being called like this, but he can't do much right now.

He just has to take his pay and disappear from those pirate's sight. Next nearest town, or maybe better the second nearest, he will indulge any whim of Jaskier, to gain his forgiveness. He would give him the whole world, if only he had the chance.

Maybe it's not a sane thought, but now Geralt is so fucking _scared_ to say or do the wrong thing. He doesn't think, of course, that Jaskier is made of glass, that he would broke at the first harsh word he will definitely say sooner or later, but just knowing that everytime he pushed him away, that he lashed out his anger at him, that he preferred Yennefer over him, he could have _literally_ break his heart and turn him into _sea fucking foam_ , and it terrorizes him.

Just imagining the only fucking thing that brings joy in his life – apart from Ciri – could crumble in pain and disappear in the crushing waves, the same waves of the same sea that brought him here even before his birth, scares the shit out of him.

He finds the Alderman sleeping in his little bed in his little house at the edge of town. No servants announces his arrive, nor guards. Clearly the Alderman has lost all his money in booze, considering that he welcomes him in his sleeping attire and with a nauseating smell of alcohol clouding his entire person. He is definitely hangover, Geralt muses, while he watches as the man sways on his feet. He doesn't let him enter, and that's okay because Geralt is not there for a cup of tea, and he wants to get the fuck out of that town as soon as possible. Better to take no risks. Jaskier risks enough just _breathing_ , for fuck's sake.

The Alderman glances at the tooth Geralt is handing him, then his little eyes narrows as the light of the sun hits his face, “I thought you died.”

Geralt snorts, “Clearly, I survived.”

The man nods, takes the tooth and disappears for a second inside his house. Then he comes back with a tingling pouch with his money inside. “Here. Inside there are the money for the food and for the room too, I already talked with the innkeeper.”

Geralt accept the pouch and backs away. He bends slightly his head to thank the man, then he turns around. Not even after three steps, though, the Alderman's voice stops him in his track. “Where is the boy that was with you?”

“He's waiting.” he just says, without turning to look at the man.

“Take this as an advice, Witcher. They are searching for you two, those scums. Pirates, I say. If I were you, I'll run away from 'ere as fast as I can. Take those money and use 'em in another inn. They didn't kill your horse just because they were thinking to lure you here with it.”

Hearing that, finally Geralt turns, “They know my horse is at the inn's stable?”

He doesn't like the sound of it.

The Alderman nods again, then grabs the pommel of his door, “People talk, Witcher.” he says at last, right before closing the door in his face, without much as a goodbye.

But Geralt doesn't care about that. He cares that the pirates are indeed searching for them, and they know that they would, sooner or later, come to the inn to take Roach back. And right now, Jaskier is right inside that inn, without even his lute to use as a weapon, completely defenseless against who knows how many men. Fuck. _Fuck_. How could he be so _stupid_. Will he ever learn, fucking _Gods_ , will he ever _learn_ to never let Jaskier out of his very _sight_ not even for a fucking _second_.

He all but runs until he sees the inn in the distance. In the deserted roads, no souls are walking near the market stalls, apart from the men and women that are opening them at the first light of the day. None of them seems perturbed about anything, but as he can see from there, there aren't the people shouting at the pier anymore. Shit. _Fuck_.

He glance briefly at Roach, and she is there, quietly munching some hay. Then, he stumbles into the inn and something drops from his chest to his stomach, when he doesn't see Jaskier seated anywhere.

He glare at the innkeeper, that is watching him with a suspicious gaze. “The man that came here not even half an hour ago. Where is he?”

The man shrugs, but when Geralt _growls_ , he jolts, “Someone took him away.”

“Who?” he snarls.

“Dunno. The pirates, probably. They were searching for you.”

Geralt grits his teeth, “And where the _fuck_ did they took him?”

The man drops the rug he was torturing with his fingers on the wooden table he probably was cleaning before his arrive. “I don't know.” he repeats, exasperated. “I was hiding, alright? I want to trouble.”

“I will fucking _slice you open._ You will have no more trouble then.”

The men gulps, “They were saying something about a pool of water to make him drown like their ship he stole. I know nothing more, I swear.”

He snarls again and slams the door as he exits the inn. He immediately reaches Roach and jump on her back. She agitates, but he doesn't have the time to calm her like she deserves. He pushes not too hard his heels against her side and she neighs loudly, as she starts to trot away from the town – clever girl, she understand perfectly that there is something wrong that is happening. The absence of Jaskier may bother her as well, considering that she isn't used at his non–presence neither.

This is no good. Geralt is not even worried about the threat to drown him, because he surely _cannot_ drown as long as they sink him into sea water, but the moment they will notice that he suspiciously has gills and a tail with scales as beautiful as his ultramarine eyes, worse thing may befall on him. Fucking _Gods_ , what if they would sell him? What if they would skin him alive so they could sell his scale or, _Godsdamnit_ , sell his heart to some insane noble that is searching for immortality? Or his tongue for his voice?

He growls at the thought. He will _rip their fucking heart off their fucking chest_.

He nudges against Roach's back once more, to make her go faster.

❁

The pain from the transformation wakes him up quite abruptly, he must say. Not that he was sleeping pacefully, considering that someone knocked him out with a blow behind his head not even ten minutes after he sat at a table, waiting for his love to bring him enough money to at least eat something, before leaving the town behind their back.

But, well, it seems that Destiny had another plan for them. Geralt won't be happy.

Someone has their hands on him, and he can hear loud gasps when his tail splashes against the low waters. He tries to open his eyes, but his drenched hair is stuck on his forehead and half covers them, the tips of his strands stinging into them almost painfully. His arms are pulled high until someone ties them to a wooden pole. Splinters sting the tender skin of his palms.

The scorching sun hits him, blinds his face and burns his naked skin. Well, shit. He lost again his pants and someone also tore the shirt lovely Mergera conjured for him, that's _outrageous_. His head hurts and his ears whistle, but it's getting bearable, slowly. Pity that he still can't quite understand what the fuck is going on.

Opening his eyes, Jaskier, with a huff, tries to remove his hair from sight. The first thing he sees is that he's not in the sea – not completely, that is – but in a natural pool, a beautiful pool with glittering waters and rocks and poles all around. Is it a secret place? It resembles the island where Geralt and he found the Sirens' nest. But, no, he is not there, it's not the same place – there is the hand of the human in this landscape, in the places the rocks rest, in the wooden pole he is tied to.

And, surely, the murmurs and grunts all around him aren't similar to the Sirens' chants in the least.

“What the fuck.” he groans, his head pounding, the taste of copper on his lips.

A man with a curious oily bandana hiding his hair crouches at his side, not quite touching the waters. Jaskier is at the edge of the pool, tied to a pole, with his tail immersed in the waters and his bared torso a prey for those men and the rays of the sun. “You a Siren, boy?”

“No shit.” he mumbles. He doesn't like what he feels in his mouth. It's kneaded and surely blood is pouring out of it along with the sea water.

“Well, that's interesting.” he barks a mean laugh, spitting a bit. If Jaskier has seen right, he misses a teeth or two. After Geralt came to his rescue, he can bet his glorious arse that there will be more missing! He tries to say that, but he still feels nauseous so nothing but a moan comes out of his lips. “Leave him here. In a five, six hours or so, after the sun made his job, we'll come again. He'll be dead by then, and if not barely alive. Burn to his bones, I tell ya. Hopefully his scales will be intact.”

A chorus of laughers and grunts of understanding raises from behind him. They are a lot, fucking hell. He pulls at the cords around his wrists, but apart for them to tighten their grip, nothing happens. His heart starts to beat in his chest, so hard and loud that perhaps everyone can hear it – and yes, it is fear, he is scared as fuck, and it is happening too many times lately. He deserved a fucking rest, more than just three fucking days. Fuck. _Fuck_ , no, not now, he doesn't want to die _now_.

But he won't, right? Geralt will come and save him, as always. He just has to wait.

But... fuck. He doesn't have too much time. He will die from drying out under the scorching sun. He'll be here for _hours_. He can't move, he can't drink nor eat, he can't somehow lower his temperature.

As he hears steps walking away behind him, he shouts: “Wait!”

After a second, the same man from before crouches next to him again, and cocks his head. “Yeah, you thief?”

“I am no thief, sir. My name is Jaskier, and I am just an humble bard that was in the wrong place at the very wrong time.” he says the moment he regain enough strenght to move his tongue and jaw, trying to be flirtatious, “I do not know why you captured me, but it must be a terrible misunderstanding. I do not blame you, sir, for I must comprehend your apprension about what you lost–”

“What I lost is all I had. And you and that mutant of a Witcher took it away from me.” he bares his teeth – or better, what remains of his teeth – and snarls, “All my tresures, and all my researches. All lost. Just because? You probably lured my mens with that blasted voice of yours!”

He is the captain of the pirate ship. Isn't this just the usual luck he always has. He trembles, and surely not for the cold. “I never use my allure–”

“Bullshits!” the pirate interrupts him again, voice mean. He removes the bandana from his head, looking at him with menacing slitted eyes. “I had the power of a sea witch by my side, and still, one of you monsters found a way to let my ship sink with my mens and treasures.”

“I have not done anything, you have to believe me. The statue broke somehow, and then we were attacked!”

His eyes flares, but he doesn't rise his voice, when he starts talking again: “I once saw a girl. A beautiful, pale girl. She had blue eyes, as blue as your scales. As yours. She was here, once, looking at the sea. Crying. I shaped that statue having her in my mind. She would never have betrayed me.” he exclaims, calmly. Then he brings his bandana to his face and covers his mouth. “Now. You won't talk again, and you won't lure us with you singing. Fukin' monster.”

Oh, for the love of the Gods, that's _disgusting_. He tries to not assey too much of that bandana, because in his mouth there is already the worst taste ever with all the blood staining his teeth, now he does not even want to think about whatever the stench on that horrible rug is.

But the second the captain walks away again, he panics. No, no, no no no _no_ , he can't go away, if he goes he cannot try to let him see reason and beg for his release. And, also, he does not want to be alone, he hates to be alone – fuck, he wants _Geralt_ , thank you very much, but right now even those sadistic whoresons are better than nothing. Alone is way worse. He can't do anything, he can't even talk anymore, and the only thing that surrounds him is the low waters splashing against his tail and his lungs that suffer because it's becoming difficult to breathe.

He shouts as lound as he can against the bandana, but no one comes back.

He closes his eyes, because the sun it's starting to get higher in the sky. It blinds him, and burns his chest. Today is particularly hot, and there is not a cloud covering the burning rays, not for even a second.

Time passes.

His breathing becomes heavy, his skin starts to become too tender. He feels cold, strangely. Probably after what he thinks are more than two hours under the sun, higher and higher in the sky, the more midday approaches, the more the rays become unbearable, his temperature raises a lot.

He has to take his eyes close, or else the sun would blind him for good. He cannot feel his arms anymore, the tip of his fingers are numb. His heart is still beating fast and messily against his chest.

Time passes. And Geralt still isn't here.

His head hurts. It pounds. He feels febbrile. He probably loses consciousness after a while. Probably after three hours. Three hours are a lot of time to be immobile under the sun. He remembers that once, when he was a child, he fell asleep in his mother's garden, right after lunch. When he woke up after an hour and not much later, he felt so bed that he threw up what he ate at midday and had a high fever for a whole day. The doctors said he had a sun stroke – at the time, he thought them silly, because the sun couldn't have beaten him, being so high in the sky.

He moves slowly his head. It hurts as fuck, but at least like this he gives half his face a break from the sun. It is better then let his brain explode. Will it explode, if they leave him here for days? Anatomy was never the best of his skills, if he can't make love with the parts interested.

He moans, softly. He misses Geralt. He misses to touch him, and to make love to him. If only he has known that their time would have been so short, he would have enjoyed those days lingering in Mergera's cottage more. He could have begged for at least another day. Just one. It's not being terribly greedy, if he asked for just. One day. Right?

Still with his eyes closed, he can't see where is the sun in the sky. But it surely have changed position. Time passes. It's been hours. He is still alive, though. He _has to_ stay alive, because he knows that. Geralt is near.

Oh, yes. He's near.

Oh, how he wishes to sing. He thinks that he has the perfect words to finish Geralt's lullaby. Maybe he'll sing it to him, when he'll come. Even without his lute, Geralt said that it would be alright. But he is so tired.

So, Jaskier will just– sleep for a bit. No harms in this.

He'll just sleep, so the time will pass. Faster. And Geralt will be here, when he'll wake.

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be infinite. No, I'm kidding, but is was getting way longer than expected, so I had to cut it in two chapters. A very big two chapters, and I am very very sorry about this. But, hey! It's a story full of intrigues and stabbing in the backs, and heartbreaks, so many heartbreaks, and fluffy lovefools. So stay tuned for next chapter that sadly it's not already done, so you have to wait.  
> And please, forgive me the amount of liberties I took about Sirens. In the end, I knew I wasn't joking when I said that Jaskier's grandmother is the little mermaid. ❁
> 
> (and wherever you are, wherever you are doing, just stay safe, and fight.)


End file.
